Vincent Mother's Sewing Machine

I've bought a sewing machine on the internet for a fair price.Unlike previous online transactions, this one was finalized on site, at the seller's house, up north of the island. Vincent is the name of the chap who sold me the machine which includes some spare needles, a couple of thimbles, a screwdriver and a tiny refillable oil tube with no cap and little thread left over after a demo was given. It is a used machine, from his mother who has just moved to a senior residence. The sale was concluded short and sweet as the machine still is in good condition despite the number of years...

The sewing machine didn't escape the attention of curious street's passerby, mostly women. On a few occasions, I had to pretend that it was my mother's sewing machine for it is a true antique one!. As the trip back home seemed to take longer than expected, memories of my mother's sewing machine came back to me in a most intrusive manner: we had a couple of sewing machines too, in Vietnam: a Singer with a big pedal, and an electric one similar to Vincent Mother's sewing machine. That was with the electric one that Mother stayed late to shorten a pair of jeans and other stuff the night before I left the family home to go abroad. The machines still stayed with my mother as far as I remembered from my last trip, at our family house, thousand miles away. I doubt she has sold them, for they have a long history which goes with the house and our family. It has always been a problem to organize a trip abroad for my mother to visit us, even for a short while. It was quite contradictory since she had always shown her desire to join us, but the weight of nostalgia seemed to cloud her mind before any preparation could be made...

Vincent sold me his mother's machine but refused to give away the little metal box which contains all the sewing accessories and probably his childhood. It is pretty touching when my daughter has noticed that his name was even engraved on the case. Looking back at Vincent's reaction when he decided to keep the empty tool box, I suddenly have a strange feeling that I bought the sewing machine for myself instead for my daughter, while Vincent sold it to me against his heart for it was the sewing machine of his childhood.

As the train almost came to a stop, there was favorite song of my sister which I still remember the lyrics, songs she used to hum every time she sat at the sewing table to shorten her mini skirt which my mother never let her wear:

"On ne jette pas un vieux jean usé
On recolle un livre abîmé
Par amour ou par pitié..."

"We don't throw away a worn out jean
We tape up a damaged book...
for Love or Pity."

Both Vincent Mother's sewing machine and the song date from the mid 60s and everything in life as in love, we did it for Love or Pity, according to my sister's song.